


Other Worlds Than These

by MercurialMagpie



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon, Dark Tower - Stephen King, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Male Bonding, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-24 10:27:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8368819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercurialMagpie/pseuds/MercurialMagpie
Summary: Being a collection of one-shots, stand-alones, and assorted miscellanea not (necessarily) connected to each other or other stories.I will be adding to the tags and possibly warnings as I go; please let me know if I've missed any, and I'll put them in.





	1. Forgotten the Face of His Father

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'm re-reading The Dark Tower in anticipation of the upcoming films, and this started bugging me and wouldn't leave me alone til I wrote it. Hopefully now that it's done I can get back to Training Of...  
> This has, maybe, possibly, some hints of Clint/Coulson, if you squint real hard. Feel free to ignore them.

Clint could not believe he was back in the Midwest. Kansas was some of the most God-forsaken land on the continent (and as someone who was friends with Thor, he would know). But there was something hinky in Kansas City, something not weird enough for the whole team, but definitely needing _some_ investigation, so between the fact that Clint was from Iowa (no, Tony, they're not the same place, dammit!) and the fact that no one, including him, really wanted him there during the rebuilding of the city, he was the one sent. (He tried to tell himself that it had nothing to do with none of them trusting him after he was working for Loki and got all those people killed. Including Phil... He wasn't thinking about Phil, and he wasn't thinking about trust or lack thereof. He was just working the mission. Working the mission.)

Weird mission, anyway. Important to focus on. People were getting sick in KC, but not in a way that made sense. Looking over the briefing had made him think of cholera in London, and the way it had been centered around tainted wells. Only here, it was a near-perfect circle around a small, unassuming park, and it was a particularly nasty strain of the flu. Nasty, hell, most of the people who'd gotten it had died, and died rough. But the really, truly hinky part was that lots of other people in that radius, who hadn't gotten sick, some who didn't even know their neighbors were getting sick, had left. Some were suddenly trying to sell their houses, others had a whim for a vacation or an urgent business meeting out of town. SHIELD had apparently talked to a few of them when they realized something was up, and over and over again they'd said the place felt 'unfriendly' or 'hostile' or 'creepy'. And now the circle was starting to expand.

Thus the presence of an Avenger. Even if Bruce would have been a better choice. Or Tony. Or, hell, even Steve would have been reassuring and bulky. But those were the important Avengers, the names and faces everyone knew, and they were all needed back in New York, cleaning up Chitauri carcasses and getting the city running again. 

“Dammit, Barton, stop feeling sorry for yourself, you're an Avenger, act like it!” The pep talk wasn't much good, but it was something. He took a deep breath and stepped over the invisible line in the street into the radius-of-hinky. He paused, but nothing seemed any different. He let out his breath on a laugh at himself, and continued up the street in the direction of the park. It was quieter here, that was for sure, but it was actually kind of restful. Just Clint and the tree-lined street he was strolling along...

Looking behind every trunk, and eying the curtained windows warily, as if wolves might leap out at him the moment he turned his back. OK, yeah, something weird for sure. He tapped his com. “SHIELD transport, this is Hawkeye, I can definitely confirm the 'hostile vibe.' No other contact whatsoever... No, wait, that's a cat. Proceeding toward epicenter.”

“Hawkeye, this is Mockingbird, reading you loud and clear. Don't get attacked by the cat. We will continue to monitor.”

“Great, thanks Bobbi. I'll keep that in mind. Hawkeye out.” He drew his favorite gun, but left his hand loose at his side as he crossed the last few blocks and moved into the park. The feeling of wrongness was definitely stronger here, but no more identifiable. He stalked past scattered trees and statuary, and now he almost felt that something was _drawing him in_ , luring him closer... He brought his gun up, casting about for the threat, but there continued to be nothing. There wasn't even birdsong or squirrels dashing about. That was its own whole different kind of creepy.

And then, between one step and the next, the air went... wobbly, and the park... changed (everything dead and dying, the smell in the air like a dozen Octobers all at once), and there were voices. A young guy, full of fire, saying, “-pretty sure the dream said over here.”

And an older guy, world-weary but calm, “I do not doubt.” Clint spun around a topiary (leaves in sickly shades of green and yellow), bead already drawn on the source of the older voice. As soon as he saw the man, the man saw him, and drew in return. (Left handed. Tall. Skin weatherbeaten as a ranch hand. Eyes as blue as  
_(The Tesseract)_  
a winter's sky. Bigass revolver.) Those cold blue eyes flicked down, then up, stopped on the gun, then met his own eyes. He slowly and deliberately lowered his revolver. “Cry your pardon, gunslinger. We did not mean to startle you.”

Clint felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up, and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Well, shit, Toto, looks like we'll be going to see the Wizard after all!”

The younger guy (medium height, pale skin, hazel eyes, holding a gun the twin of Ol' Blue Eyes' revolver) laughed back. “Yeah, sorry, not exactly Kansas anymore. Hi, I'm Eddie.” He held out his left hand, and they shook without letting go of their guns. “This is Roland.”

Clint nodded to both of them. “I'm Clint. Do-” And then he couldn't help it. This was just one too many pieces of weird shit in the last year, and he was done. He started laughing, and he couldn't stop. He sagged against the topiary as his knees grew weak.

Eddie took a step or two closer, carefully. “Geeze, man, you sound strung out. You ok?”

Clint wrestled himself under control, gulping air to try to calm down. “Well, I don't do drugs...” He looked up, and saw that Eddie understood. “God, seriously. What the hell?”

And then he realized that Roland had moved closer, was peering at him in that too-knowing way Nat did when she was looking right through you. “I believe, gunslinger, that you have forgotten the face of your father, and that is what ails you.”

Clint took two huge steps back, the gun coming up again practically on its own. “OK, first of all, fuck you, my father deserves to be forgotten by the whole fucking world, the abusive bastard, second, don't you know what fucking 'personal space' is? Third, why the hell do you keep calling me 'gunslinger'? What the hell does that mean? Oh, yeah, and who the hell are you to try and tell me what's wrong with me? Plus, where the hell am I, if I'm not in Kansas?”

The tall man drew himself up taller. “I am Roland of Gilead, son of Steven, of the line of Eld, and... well, the rest is a very long story. But we are in no danger here, and so I think we may relax.” He gave Clint a Significant Look and holstered his weapon, and after a moment Eddie did the same. “I think, perhaps, that Eddie might explain best. You clearly speak the same dialect.” Clint made himself lower his gun, put it away, knowing full well he didn't want this to come to a shootout. Not that he really thought it would; for all these two were dangerous, he honestly didn't think they were dangerous _to him_.

Eddie took a deep breath, and let it out in a sigh. “Yeah, I think we do. I think I might. OK, so, quick version. There are all sorts of worlds, that touch, and cross, and intersect, but they're all linked together by things called Beams, and the Tower at the center of them. I got pulled from New York in 1987 to Roland's world, to help him with his quest to find the Tower and fix it. Right now we're all in some alternate version of Kansas, where there was something they called a super-flu that killed off almost everybody.” He paused, and gave Clint a small smile. “The good news is, my dreams are pretty accurate, and they say the flu didn't actually escape into your world, it was more... psychic bleed-over? So no one else over there is gonna die. Heh, well, of that, anyway.” Clint couldn't help his own small laugh. “Anyway, I think the reason you're here is to hear about gunslingers, and what it means to be one. I think that's something you need to hear.”

Clint raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms, though his fingers still drummed on his biceps. “Your dreams told you to come to this park, to meet with me, specifically, even though I didn't even know this thing was an issue until this morning, to tell me about John Wayne? And you thought I- this was important enough to take time out of your quest for the Holy Grail to actually do it?”

Roland cut through his agitation like a scepter through- “Eddie's dreams have led us very true so far. And here you are. And there is an illness on your heart which causes you to no longer shoot true. If we can help lift that burden from you, it will be worth the time we take. Will you hear our words and take our counsel?”

Clint nodded, a little reluctantly, and forced his arms to uncross. He shoved his hands in his pockets instead. “I'm listening.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and mimicked his pose. “I'm so glad.” He turned earnest. “So the thing about gunslingers is, we're shooters, sure, but more than that, we're justice. We're the ones who protect people from bandits, who avenge the innocent dead-” (Clint tried to hide his flinch on That Word, but he got the feeling they both noticed.) “-who make the world a little safer, a little better. When things are going right, we're also the ones who see through to the heart of the problem, who do what needs to be done, who- God, I don't even know if I'm saying this right...”

Clint rolled his shoulders. “You're saying shooting people is an honorable thing if they're bad people and you're helping good people. I get that. What makes you think I'm part of this-” and he couldn't help sneering a little “-elite brotherhood of honorable shooters?”

Roland was quiet, but intense. “The look in your eye when you looked down the barrel of your gun at me. The steadiness of your hand when you saw my own gun. Eddie's dreams of you fighting to save people who will never know your name. The fight I see within you to heal your sickness of the heart. Do you deny that your weapon is an extension of your hand, your eye, your mind? Do you deny your own self?”

Eddie put a hand on Roland's arm. “Hey, don't overwhelm the poor guy.” He looked over. “Clint, man, take a deep breath. You're white as a sheet.” Clint took a deep, shaky breath, and let it out, then a second, less shaky, and held it a moment. “That's better. You know, I think it's time for a practical demonstration. I'll teach you the first thing Roland taught me, the saying at the heart of being a gunslinger.” He pointed his body down the clearing, drew his gun, and raised an eyebrow at his mentor.

Roland shook his head, but fondly. “Always cutting to the meat of the matter. Say your lesson, then, gunslinger, and shoot true.”

Eddie aimed at one of the trees furthest from them, took a deep breath, and recited. “I do not aim with my hand; he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I aim with my eye. I do not shoot with my hand; he who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I shoot with my mind. I do not kill with my gun; he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father. I kill with my heart.” He fired, all six shots in easy succession, and six leaves from the same branch all fluttered downward.

Somehow, the words burned themselves into Clint's mind, more true and right than anything he'd ever heard from a church, or a living God. And yet they couldn't apply to him anymore, he couldn't live up to- Before he knew his mouth was open, he was speaking, sounding hollowed out. “And what if my heart was taken from me, and I was forced to kill without it? Used as a weapon, against people I-” He swallowed hard. “People I cared about, people I never met, pe- peop-” He was trying to breathe, heaving in great gulps of air, but still his vision was greying out at the edges. “I-”

And Eddie was there, hands on his biceps, helping him steady and find his bearings. “Hey, hey... Breathe, man, just take a deep breath in and out. You're back, now. Feel your heart? There, in your chest, beating? Are you gonna use it right, now that you've got it back?” Clint focused until he could feel it, then nodded. “Then, man, you're gonna be ok.” And oddly, he did feel a little better, his heart pounding, sure, but slowing now, and _his_ again, his actions his own... He nodded, not quite as sharply as he'd meant to, and Eddie nodded back, friendly, like Steve or Tony might. When Eddie added a smile, so did Clint.

He took one last deep breath and stepped back, then turned to the older man, who had been watching silently. “So you think me saying this lesson will help shit somehow?”

Roland raised one eyebrow. “I think the fact that you are fighting so hard against it means that you _know_ you _must_ say it. Do you need me to remind you of the words?”

Clint shook his head sharply. “I remember.” He drew his gun, aimed at the same tree Eddie had shot, and blew out his breath. “I do not aim with my hand-” was his hand shaking? Not enough for a normal person to notice... “he who- who aims with his hand has- has forgotten the face of-” a flash of memory, an angry drunkard looming over him, hand and voice raised “-his father. I aim with my eye.” He blinked, the tree going in and out of focus. “I- I do not shoot with my hand-” Crap, his hand was definitely shaking. This thing was more intense than Eddie made it seem. “He who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father.” Maybe he could just picture shooting his father directly. That'd feel good, right? “I shoot with-”

Before he even knew he was going to, he had flung the gun away and whirled on Roland. “No, screw you. I get what you're doing, man, but this thing about fathers? I want it, ok? I _want_ to forget the face of my father, I want to forget my whole damn childhood, all he ever did was get drunk, tell me I was worthless, and hit me. He doesn't deserve a single good thing, not even being remembered! Screw him, screw you, screw this whole screwy business, how the hell do I get back to New York?” From behind him, Eddie barked out a bitter laugh.

But Roland only stepped close and grabbed Clint by both shoulders, boring his impossibly blue eyes into Clint's. “Then I will be your father, Clint of Gilead, of the line of Eld! Look into my face and remember it well, for your world needs you, and you must shoot true. Remember my face and shoot!”

It was an easy face to remember, full of character and history, but Clint found himself studying it anyway, searching out every detail, every wrinkle and freckle, every nuance of those remarkable eyes. Finally, he nodded and turned. Eddie was there, holding his gun out to him butt-first. He nodded to him as he took it, then shifted and aimed. Roland's face hung, in the eye of his memory, in the air between him and the tree he was targeting. “I do not aim with my hand; he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I aim with my eye. I do not shoot with my hand; he who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I shoot with my mind. I do not kill with my gun; he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father.” He felt it descend, the perfect calm at the heart of the sniper's shot, and the branch suddenly seemed close enough to press his barrel to. He breathed out. “I kill with my heart.” He placed a perfect three-shot grouping, neatly severing the branch from its tree.

Eddie clapped him on the shoulder genially. “There you go, gunslinger. I think you got it.” He couldn't help grinning, and Eddie grinned back. Even Roland cracked a tiny smile.

*A*A*

Clint retraced his steps out of the park, and felt that strange wobbling in the air again. Immediately, he heard Bobbi's voice in his ear. “-me in. I repeat, Hawkeye, if you can hear me, please come in. Dammit, Clint, where the hell are you? I repeat-”

Clint tapped his com. “I read, Mockingbird. I'm here. I'm-” He tapped his com off again so he could indulge in a burst of manic laughter. Afterward, he realized he actually, genuinely felt a bit better. He turned the com back on. “I'm good. I've dealt with the issue; I don't think we're going to have any more trouble with this spot.” He headed back up the street to the Quinjet at a jog. “I'm coming in. Let's go home.”


	2. Internship Initiative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Science bros become science sibs; or, New York isn't that different from Tokyo...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure no one was wondering about my pseud, but here's part of why anyway.  
> This is left open to sequels, too. Some vague ideas thereward.

Tony had been spending a whole lot of time in Bruce's lab this week, which was convenient for Steve on Thursday, when he had some Avengers questions for both of them. He let himself into the lab casually, grinning that he could. “Hey, Bruce, Tony, I wanted to ask-” He paused as a third person came into view. “Oh, sorry, hello, Miss...?”

The girl -young woman- standing between his friends was petite, Asian, with short blue hair. She gave him a quick, formal-seeming bow from the waist, straight-backed. “Mizuno. Ami. From Tokyo University. I, ah, I am here...” She licked her lips, her eyes darting around the room a little.

Tony seemed electrified by her presence. He started to sling an arm around her shoulders, but paused just before actually making contact. Steve watched, amused, as several emotions and thoughts chased across his face in a handful of seconds, then he slowly and cautiously removed his arm and took a step away. “Ami here is currently the world's foremost expert in the integration of biological elements and electronic components. She's the best intern SI has ever had, and she's going to help me -and Bruce- revolutionize the field of cybernetics and biomechanics.”

Bruce quirked up the corner of his lip, his equivalent of a full-on grin. “Thank you so much for including me in that. Also, 'current' expert?”

Tony waved a hand dismissively. “Another week, maybe two, I'll be giving her a run for her money. And I expect you to be not more than a month or so behind me.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “So, no pressure or anything.”

Miss Mizuno giggled and patted him on the arm. “It's alright. We all know you're the one who comes up with practical applications. He's just the one with the crazy ideas.”

Tony clapped a hand to the arc reactor. “I am hurt. Entirely wounded. Those wings were genius and you both know it.”

Bruce sighed, but his eyes were twinkling. “Just what everyone wants under the Christmas tree this year, right, Icarus?” He very blatantly turned away from Tony and toward Steve. “So, I'm guessing you came in here for a reason?” Steve shook himself back into Captain mode, and opened the folder he was carrying.

*A*A*

On Tuesday, a submarine ran itself aground in Battery Park, and dozens of Doombots spilled out, firing some sort of ray gun indiscriminately into the crowds of tourists. The team Assembled and moved out with all speed, and within five minutes of arriving, Steve had them deployed around the perimeter. He landed on the roof of a gazebo, where Clint was firing explosive arrows at the stomping robots. “How's it looking?”

Clint didn't even glance over. “Oh, you know, just another weekday in New York. At least there's no schoolkids today.”

Steve nodded fervently. “Amen to that. OK, let me know if you run low on ammo, or if you see anything unusual.” He clapped Clint on the shoulder and jumped over to the roof of the concession stand, where he paused to take a look around. As he turned to face north, a figure jumped off a delivery truck and halted in front of him.

It was a petite Asian woman, with short blue hair, in a white-and-blue outfit that looked about as suited to fighting as Hulk's usual wear, but she was standing on thin air, so Steve suspected she knew what she was doing. He took a moment, in the privacy of his own mind, to boggle at the fact that she was standing on nothing, as she came to attention. “Sir. Sailor Mercury reporting for duty.” She glanced around, taking in the scene. “I think I'll probably be most useful making ice and fog to slow them down. Excuse me, please.” 

Steve nodded, as briskly as he could under the circumstances. “Captain America. Very nice to meet you. You might want one of these.” He fished in his belt pouches, glad he always carried extra coms (someone was always losing theirs), and tossed her one. She nodded back, tucked it in her ear easily, then leapt up and over the building, blithely ignoring the laws of physics.

She landed in the middle of a cluster of Doombots, and Steve heard her call out something in what he assumed was Japanese. He tapped on his com. “Captain to all Avengers. New player is a friendly, and is on coms. Please try and pretend, just for today, that we're a team rather than a herd of cats, and work with our new friend?” He got back a chorus of what passed for affirmatives with them, and dove back into the battle.

Fifteen minutes later, the bots were all down, though some were still twitching, and SHIELD had arrived for cleanup. Steve hooked his shield onto his back, and smiled at Sailor Mercury as she landed next to him. He shook her hand, then introduced the rest as they gathered in. “Sailor Mercury, may I introduce, Black Widow, Hawkeye, oh, that _was_ Hulk, Thor, and Iron Man.”

Tony flipped up his visor as he came in for a landing, and he was grinning wide enough to split his face. “Best. Intern. _Ever_.”


End file.
